


Neccessary Lessons

by alexiel



Series: Learning Curve [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark, Gangbang, M/M, Non Consensual, gangrape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-28
Updated: 2011-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexiel/pseuds/alexiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and John decide that Sherlock needs to learn a lesson. Unforunately for Lestrade, that lesson extends to him as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Lesson

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the kink-meme here:
> 
> This is seriously not nice.

ns

 

John hadn't understood, at first, why Mycroft had chosen an amphitheater with a boxing ring at its center for this event. The ring had seemed too small for the number of men involved and the spectator seating too exposed. But now, as he leaned forward in his seat to watch the fifth - no, sixth - of Sebastian Moran's men bury himself hilt deep inside of Sherlock's ass, he has to concede that Mycroft had chosen well. Sitting ringside, John was able to see each drop of sweat and hear each impassioned groan.

"It's amazing," he murmured, palming himself through his jeans as the man using Sherlock began to build up a rhythm, his military tags clinking in counter point to the set worn by the man thrusting ruthlessly in and out of Sherlock's mouth. "I didn't think your brother would give in this soon."

On John's right, Mycroft huffed. "Doctor, it's past three in the morning." He pulled out his pocket watch, holding it up for John to see, "Frankly I'm surprised he's still conscious."

Before he could filter himself, John asked, "You mean I've been hard for two hours?" and Mycroft laughed again.

In the ring, the man fucking Sherlock's mouth tensed suddenly and pulled out. Like the others before him, (enough others that John had lost count,) emptied himself onto Sherlock's already cum covered face. (Beneath it, beneath the leavings of all those men, Sherlock's skin finally had some color to it. A pleasant red, almost purple, flush. John wondered if Mycroft would have photos of it later.) Sherlock had barely a second to gasp for breath before the cock that had been in his mouth was replaced by another and the two men sharing him, (well, four if you counted the ones using his hands to jack themselves to hardness while they waited,) built up an even more pushing rhythm than before. This time, after the man tugged sharply on Sherlock's matted hair, John watched as Sherlock began to actively suck, hallowing out his cheeks.

John moaned out loud. He'd never dreamed Sherlock would be this _teachable_.

Sherlock had fought so hard at first, kicking and struggling even though it was a trained unit of Royal Marines holding him down. At one point, he'd nearly dislocated his own shoulder and, at another, wrenched his head so hard to the side he would've split it open if the floor hadn't been padded. John could still hear the keening wail Sherlock had given when the first man stopped to prep him; could practically feel the fist thudding into Sherlock's face when he'd threatened to bite the first man that had used his mouth. He savored, would always savor, the desperate way that Sherlock had called his name - had cried for help, when someone had finally stuck their dick in him. (Not that he'd been aware then that John was in the room; John would be extremely surprised if Sherlock had been aware of anything outside of his _transport_ at that point.)

"You could join them you know." Mycroft offered dryly, "If you want to - you should do it now. He'll be too sloppy for you to use soon." Which was true. John could smell him from here, a heady mix of sweat, semen, and blood. John considered what it would be like to add to that. He thought about adding to the number of angry red presents on Sherlock's hips. He thought of adding his own to the blue-purple ring of finger-print-bruises on Sherlock's neck. He thought about contributing the mess staining the man's face, back, and thighs. He thought of adding to the many teeth marks on his flatmate's body. He remembered the way Sherlock's hole had gaped, red and angry, each time one of the men had pulled out.

Then he weighed it all against the likelihood of Sherlock ever remembering, of separating out the memory of his hands, his teeth, his dick, from the (two dozen?) other ones he'd be taking tonight.

"No." John decided regretfully, "Not tonight." Tonight was about teaching Sherlock a lesson. "The whole _point_ is to teach him what could happen when I’m not there. When… _we_ aren’t there to save him." He shifted a little, palmed himself again.

"I suppose then," Mycroft said, " that Colonel Moran may give his men permission to, um…?"

"Double stuff your brother?" John asked indelicately.

Mycroft wrinkled his nose, "Yes, that."

John made a broad gesture with his right hand. Mycroft transmitted the signal to Moran, who blew a whistle like a referee. Instantly, the men using Sherlock stepped away, dropping him wetly onto the mat.

Moran issued an order to six of them and, to John's annoyance, they hesitated.

"NOW!" John barked loudly, enjoying the way Sherlock's whole body seemed to freeze and tense at the sound of his voice. Possibly, very possibly, he'd just given Sherlock his first dose of false hope. Moran's men unfroze. Two of the men grabbed Sherlock and pulled his boneless body onto its feet. Then one, the one with the largest cock, lay down on his back, grimacing at the sticky mess. The two holding Sherlock immediately brought him back over, forcing him to impale himself on the man's dick. The man put his hands on either side of Sherlocks hips, tugging down then up until Sherlock got the hint and started to fuck himself up and down exhaustedly.

Hands now free, the man motioned his comrades into position.

Sherlock, John noticed, seemed to be enjoying his fucking rather more than before if his suddenly hardening dick was any indication. (He hadn't shown the least sign of developing an erection before.)

"The angle." Mycroft supplied, "it's better for him."

A second man was now crouched behind Sherlock, using a heavy hand to still him and stop his motion. The man's fingers, covered in other men's cum, probed at Sherlock from behind. Sherlock jerked forward. Instantly, four men came to help hold him in place.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, voice so ruined that John could hardly make out the words. The man behind Sherlock laughed, then leaned forward to whisper something in his ear. As he did so, he added a second finger to his first. Both joining the cock already inside of Sherlock. "No!" Sherlock cried. "No, please - I won't - I can't -." A fifth man came over and shut Sherlock's mouth by filling it.

For the second time that night, Sherlock began struggling in earnest. The men held him place.

John knew his own breath was growing ragged, he wondered if -.

Mycroft already knew what he was thinking. "If you were anyone else," he said flatly, "I would outright refuse."

John's breath caught, "Anyone _else_? Does that mean what I think it does?" Mycroft nodded, and John immediately moved to unzip his pants.

Silently, Mycroft lifted one hand and reached forward to tug at the hair of the man who had, since Sherlock's ordeal begun, been kneeling on the ground between his knees. Facing forward, watching the proceedings, untouched (for once) by the men on stage.

"I have always," Mycroft said amicably, "understood the value of sharing." Then he tugged once, hard, on Lestrade's hair and flung the man in John's general direction, withdrawing the handle of his umbrella from Lestrade’s arse with the same movement.

John reached for the man eagerly, all to ready to guide the DI's head down onto his waiting erection.

"Christ." John muttered at the first swipe of the man's tongue, "he's a hungry one isn't he?"

Mycroft didn't reply, though he watched them intently. "Do you know," Mycroft said, after a few moments, "Our good D.I. didn't hesitate for a moment when I asked him to bring Sherlock here tonight. He invented a case and everything." He ran the tip of his umbrella along Lestrade's back, down his spine. "If he weren't such an eager little slut most nights, I'd think he was grateful to not be the one in the ring right now."

John laughed.

On stage, Sherlock let out a scream, muffled somewhat by the dick in his mouth. By this point however, neither John nor Mycroft were paying him any mind.

On the ground, kneeling between John's legs on aching knees, Lestrade prayed that Sherlock wouldn't break.


	2. Lesson Learned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade's turn

There is something happening in the ring, but from his position on the floor between John Watson's legs, Lestrade can't see what that something is. He can hear the sudden uptick in noise level, the muffled thud of a body against a mat followed by the disappointed cursing of those who haven't yet gotten their turn. It isn't hard for him to figure out that Sherlock couldn't handle whatever they'd gotten round to doing and passed out. From the corner of his eye, Lestrade watches the corner of Mycroft's mouth turn down. He watches Mycroft watch the men in the ring and knows, instinctively, what's coming next.

Lestrade releases John's softening cock from his mouth and sits obediently back onto his heels before Mycroft can use his umbrella to direct him into this position. Above him, John lets out a groan; oversensitive from his second orgasm – his second blow job of the night.

Mycroft flicks a hand impatiently in the direction of the ring and Lestrade rises to obey without even thinking. As he walks away he hears John ask, "What's he doing?" But Mycroft doesn't answer that.

The men who have had Sherlock - the ones who have decided that they are, for tonight, sated, have begun to make their way out. A few stop to slap Lestrade’s bum as they go, murmuring filthy promises of what they’d do to him “next time”. Lestrade counts them as they leave; ten at first - then twelve - more, until only eight men remain. Eight men who cast disgusted looks at the pale, cum covered, and completely unresponsive body laying at the center of the ring.

Eight men who turn lustful, predatory glances at Lestrade. Eight men who reach for him the second he crawls over the ropes. One slaps his bum, one gives him a solid grope, one kisses him, one touches his chest, one runs a hand through his hair and - and then there are too man hands on him for Lestrade to keep count. But he stays obediently pliant, opens his mouth and his legs to let to touch and taste whatever they want. They are rough with him, but at least their hands are warm. At least they touch him in ways meant to be pleasurable.

"Oh I've missed you," one of the men whispers in his ear and Lestrade knows, (from staring at his tags the last time the man had fucked him into the floor,) that his name is Mitch or Michael or Mitchell. "The ones they send us to punish just aren't the same." The man, Lestrade settles for calling him Mitchell, tongues Lestrade's ear in a way that's meant to make him gasp so he does. The others chuckle.

"God but he's gagging for it." Another groans. Samuel, or maybe something Samuels. Lestrade isn't sure.

"He's missed us too. Haven't you, love?" Asks the man pressing his tongue into Lestrade's mouth and, this time, Lestrade's groan is real. This man had just been inside of Sherlock, Lestrade can feel his dick smearing cum across his stomach can smell the scent of mess clinging to him.

Another man reaches for him, thrusts his fingers perfunctorily into Lestrade's ass. "Fuck." The man mutters, "He's even prepped himself." The men laugh coarsely, and Lestrade knows better than to tell them that he wasn't so much prepped as fucked into the back seat of Mycroft's car by the Russian ambassador before they got here. (That the tip of Mycroft's umbrella had been keeping him open for the last three hours.)

"You want us?" The man in front of Lestrade asks. He pushes his friends aside, pulls Lestrade in close. "You want me?" The man is pressed flush against Lestrade, his erection smearing other men's fluids all over Lestrade's stomach. If he could, Lestrade would punch the man in the mouth. As it is, he knows what will happen if he doesn't play along and placate. The man, Cameron, is taller than Lestrade which is a good thing because it allows Lestrade to cast him a coy, practiced, come-hither glance through his lashes. It's a look he's used often of late. He couples it with the same eager, hungry smile he'd used on the ambassador in the car. Cameron likes it better than a verbal answer, or at least, Lestrade thinks he does because the next thing he knows he's on his back and the man's cock is shoving into him with both vigor and enthusiasm.

The first thrust is brutal. All stretch and burn and _Christ_ but Lestrade had forgotten the man's sheer girth. It's only practice that keeps him from crying out, lack of breath that prevents him from groaning. When he squeezes down around Cameron, he knows Cameron feels it anyway. Lying on his back, he knows they can see him getting hard. Mitchell leans forward to watch him over Cameron's shoulder. "Oh I think he liked that."

Cameron's second thrust rocks Lestrade backwards, into the thighs of the man whose taken a position at his head. "He wants more," Cameron says to Mitchell over his shoulder, "Little slut always wants more than a plain vanilla fuck." The men chuckle and Lestrade bites his bottom lip had, drawing blood. Cameron thrusts again. Harder. He's not even looking at Lestrade, bantering instead with Mitchell as he picks up his pace. It's as if Lestrade isn't even there. As if he's just something convenient Cameron's chosen to cover his dick with.

Lestrade is spared the sight of his own insignificance by Samuel who leans forward to nibble at his chest, covering Lestrade's head with his body. Lestrade closes his eyes, takes Samuel's military tags into his mouth, and sucks on the metal as Cameron picks up his pace.

Someone runs their dick against Lestrade's check. Someone else pulls at one of his nipples. A hand grabs his own and wraps it around someone's dick. (He begins jerking it automatically, applying pressure in what he hopes is a pleasing manner.) He doesn't even noticed that he's started to meet Cameron's thrusts.

"Oh he likes that." Someone taunts, running a single teasing finger around Lestrade's foreskin. "Can he come like this?" No one answers, but Cameron slams into him hard, twice, then grunts. Lestrade feels himself filling and then there's nothingness as the man pulls out. Cameron says something, something Lestrade doesn't hear, and suddenly everything, everyone is gone.

Lestrade blinks at the ceiling in surprise.

A foot prods his side.

"Come on then bitch," Someone says, "go ride him."

And it takes Lestrade far too long, far too many glances, to realize that they mean Sherlock. Sherlock who's unconscious but, somehow, still hard. (Hard, because they'd put a cock ring on him as soon as he'd developed an erection and hadn't let him come.) When he doesn't move fast enough, Cameron picks him up by the chin and drags him over.

"Go on then!" Mitchell fists a hand in his hair and pulls, until Lestrade is hanging from his hand like a marionette. "Come on! Give us a show" Shaking slightly, Lestrade swings a leg over Sherlock and, with Samuel's hand guiding Sherlock's cock, Lestrade sinks down onto him.

He groans. He can't help but groan. He had wanted this, once. And even now, even with Sherlock a mess of other men’s leavings, Lestrade can’t help letting himself have this. He rocks a little, letting Sherlock rub against him, inside, just the way he likes.

"He never looks like that when he's riding you." Someone says, and whomever the comment is directed towards cuffs the man across the back of his head. Lestrade doesn't have to wonder how he looked. Obscene most likely, fucking himself on an unconscious man who had just been raped. Whose rape he had helped arrange who -. Lestrade shuts that part of his mind off.

He's become very good at shutting his mind off.

He sinks down a little further on Sherlock, grinding down on the man's cock until pleasure jolts through his system. He opens his mouth, lets his tongue hang out like a dog's until someone comes forward and fills it. He tightens his mouth, sucks. It’s easier not to think when he’s full like this. It doesn't matter what he’s done when he’s like this. Like this, he can ignore that he never fought these men off anymore. That he - that he welcomed being invaded like he was some kind of unclaimed territory even though he'd fucked so many men he'd lost count.

And that, somewhere, somewhere close, Mycroft was watching. Always watching.

All that mattered, in moments like these when there were sparks going off behind his eyes and a bitter taste of salt and musk in mouth and wet streaks of pre-come marking his stomach from his own cock. All that mattered was that he was -. He was falling over the edge. Mind white and - and.

\- and he hasn't even finished his orgasm when they pull him off of Sherlock and shoving him onto his knees, still draped over Sherlock's body.

"Come on love," Someone whispers, "We're just getting started.


End file.
